Long poem by
Dylan Irvin | Details |
Phantom Journal Entry 1
Wednesday 8:03 A.M.
I found Jesus at a bus stop this morning. He recommended that I comb my hair. I told him if I had any nails I would hand them over. Monty found a shoe full of vomit by a dumpster. Someone had an interesting night. This apartment smells like stale french fries. Frank is still sleeping on the counter next to Mr. Coffee. There is a stray cat clawing at the windowpane. The town is gradually waking up. The park across the street is filled with shirkers. My mind is still living in last night’s conversation. But I don’t remember it very well. Shit, I’m going to be late for
Phantom Journal Entry 2
Wednesday 11:13 P.M.
Work sucked. I think the bartender is an alcoholic. She hides a flask in her bra. It fell out when we were in the stall together. Frank is sprawled across the kitchen floor. Monty steps over him to grab a beer. The stray cat is now sleeping on the windowpane. Nothing ever changes from morning to night. Except Monty is drinking coffee and not beer.
Phantom Journal Entry 3
Good Friday 9:47 P.M.
The ocean left the brine. The girls here are all made of smoke, and their dreams are living in my beer. The worms are drunk on the stove. Frank passed out hugging the toilet. Monty takes a piss right next to his face. Some girl just asked me what I was writing. I told her that I was rewriting the Bible. She seemed confused. Her hair wasn’t combed either. The guy at the bus stop would be ashamed. I can’t remember his name though. The television can’t stop spewing poorly scripted ‘reality’ shows. This Friday isn’t very Good.
Phantom Journal Entry 4
Monday 3:12 A.M.
My eyes are broken garage doors off the tracks. I’ve drank too much Red Bull. She keeps waking up and asking me for water. Apparently her mouth is in a drought. A dead soldier lays between her breasts. Frank keeps drooling on the carpet. My favorite ash tray is tipped over next to Mr. Coffee. This desk keeps hiding words from me. Monty wonders how much a plane ticket to Hell costs. He never sleeps.
Phantom Journal Entry 5
Thursday 12:31 A.M.
It smells of raw fish and bleach in here. My palms are sore. Monty told me to stab myself with pencils to make sure I could still bleed. So I did. That girl ordered me a pizza. But I forgot it under the couch. The medicine chest is nearly empty. When Frank wakes up he is taking a trip to 5th Street to get more. I wonder if they sell bandages there? Will Mr. Coffee brew marijuana for us? My brain is starting to throw up.
Phantom Journal Entry 6
Thursday 12:38 A.M.
This desk keeps mocking me. I offered it to the guy at the bus stop, but he said he didn’t want anymore wood. The dishes are now a chemistry project. But Mr. Coffee is always clean. I can’t get this girl to stop showing me her tattoos. I miss the bartender at work. She got fired tomorrow. So I bought her a new bra. The medicine chest is empty now. Frank is never awake when I write.
Phantom Journal Entry 7
Thursday 4:30 P.M.
I finally got the garage doors fixed. I guess they weren’t closed enough. There is a ghost that keeps haunting the hallway in my dreams. She is pretty hot. Except she keeps tilting the pictures on the wall.
The thirsty girl still won’t leave. Neither will the cat. We may have found the cure for cancer in our dishes. But probably not. Frank is talking in his sleep about stepping on rats. Monty is listening to Beethoven while he attempts to write poetry. He is an awful writer.
Phantom Journal Entry 8
Monday 1:49 A.M.
The guy at the bus stop asked me if I wanted to drink his blood. I told him I wasn’t thirsty. The water was running from the shower. Frank was dreaming in the tub. Monty ate chicken wings with the tattooed girl. I can’t remember her name. I think that cat is hungry too. Mr. Coffee wants to go to sleep. There is broken glass sticking out of my feet. The sky is bleeding white. My mind begins to masturbate.
Phantom Journal Entry 9
Sunday 3:33 A.M.
The brine is looking for the ocean. The girls here are all made of smoke, and their realities are dead on the floor. This desk is growing a face. The medicine chest is full. Monty picks up a filthy habit from the black lake. I haven’t seen Frank for a few days. He must be under the couch. I robbed the guy at the bus stop. Turns out he didn’t really save much. The thirsty tattooed girl shattered Mr. Coffee last night. I will miss him dearly. Now my shot glass is spawning worms.
Phantom Journal Entry 10
Tuesday and I don’t know what time it is
It’s been 369 days since I last wrote an entry. I’ve simply had nothing to say. Monty is living in the streets somewhere. I think of him every time I buy a loaf of bread. I wonder if he found out how much tickets cost? That cat finally starved a few weeks ago. I married that thirsty tattooed girl. I still don’t remember her name though. Frank went to sleep in someone elses apartment. Never did talk to him much. The worms are all marching in a line. Someone stole my medicine chest. I think it was Monty. The guy at the bus stop was thrown into an asylum. But somehow vanished one day. The garage doors are now closed on a regular basis. That ghost finally straightened out the tilted pictures. I think I’ve been combing my hair a lot better lately. I am still a phantom to society. But that’s okay. Nobody knows my name.
Long poem by
Vee Bdosa | Details |
There did they go into the cyberspace
where none but the great of heart
have ever gone before
and they did find great pleasure unto the night
for it was a time of love and understanding
and she did say it is good.
And when they did awake unto the dawn
then he did see a mass onto his shoulder
that had not ever been there before
and he was sore afraid.
Then he did say unto his mate, whose name is Mae,
what is it that has aflicted me in the night
and bonded itself onto the very body of me?
And she did reply unto her husband,
I know not.
And so they did consider the mass
and it was firm and round as a gooses egg,
yet it was of the mass that was thrice the size.
So she did lay her hands onto the mass
and did say,
is it now with pain, for I have given it a great charge?
But he did reply, nae, I feel it not.
And so they did go with the coming day,
even as the sun was high, unto his physician,
who counseled with some of his own, as to the matter.
And they did touch, and poke, and wonder
at the mass, and then they did say
it is a lipoma, and it is nothing more.
But one of physicians did ask
of what great need do you have of this arm,
and the man did reply, it is not the one
with which I write my name.
And the husband, whose name is Fred, did inquire
as to how this mass ever came to be
and so has attached itself onto me?
And there it sits, as if bad things to come.
Then his physicians did reply and say
nae, it is naught to worry about
but we can remove it if you have the desire.
And the wife did say unto the physicians,
who were with great skill in the matter,
this he does have,
so the husband did say, it is so my desire,
I have great needs that it be gone.
But the physicians did reply
it shall be taken away in twelve days,
for that is the only time
that is not already spoken for.
And so they did agree.
Now when the night came and he did lay again with his wife,
there came a great trembling from deep within
his body, and he did shake to his very toes.
And she did say, husband, why is it that you shake?
And what is it that maketh your body wet all over,
as if a rain has fallen on the very place you lay?
And he did reply, I know not.
But he was with great fear and did wonder
as to what the mass could be.
And his wife did then say,
it is a lipoma, and it is nothing more.
But he did think on the matter and then did say,
this must surely be as unto a sign from the maker
that my time is at hand.
Surely my life has been filled with goodness
but has brought me unto this very day.
And she did say,
it is a lipoma, and it is nothing more.
And as the day grew near,
but was even the second day unto the removal,
the husband did worry and say some more,
my life is at an end
for the very inside of me does now quake
and my hands tremble at the sight of the mass.
Yea, mine eyes cannot bear to gaze upon it
and it has become an abomination unto my sight.
But his wife did say,
it is a lipoma, and it is nothing more.
Then there came onto the tube, as if an omen
and a sign unto its own,
that a man had a mass and surely it had taken him away,
as if a robber had come in the night.
And he did grieve, for the day was almost at hand,
but did go unto his physicians and did say,
see how my body is wet and trembles at its' sight?
How is it that this thing has come unto me?
And what are the tingles unto my skin
is it what cometh from a lipoma?
But the physicians did shake their heads
and then they did say
you have the stress.
And so he did wonder at what they did tell him,
and when he looked, the mass was still there.
But the physicians did say,
it is a lipoma, and it is nothing more.
And one of the physicians said
if it is not a lipoma, the betting is off.
And then the man did return to his home
but trembled in the night.
Now when the morning did come
and the woman reached for her husband,
she found his space to be empty
and wet where he had layed.
and she did say, husband,
where is it you have gone?
But she heard not a reply.
And so she did go into the bottom of the house
where she did see him hanging from a beam
and then she did cry.
And so the constable did come, along with the scribes,
but the wife was with great grief
and did say o! that my life has such dismay
because of the lump that has taken him away.
What manner of thing has fallen to me?
And the scribe, who was to tell of the matter,
asked of her, what is it that has made you grieve?
And then the constable did say
is it the mass, that has made your husband
to end his life?
And she did say, it was a lipoma,
and it was nothing more.
....© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Long poem by
Rob Tierney | Details |
I sit here now back on my bed
Bandaged and still quite sore
I think back to my Mum and Dad
And all they both endured
My Dad he died of cancer
My Mum of MND
Both were unpleasant ways to go
Distressing all and me
My Dad he said the whole way through
That such things were quite shit
“It's not the hand that you get dealt”
“But how you play with it”
He played his days, diagnosis on
With courage and true grit
He even kept his old jumper
Into which he once had fit
In his last days his breath grew weak
He just slept more and more
No longer looked like my dear Dad
Not like he'd looked before
I wasn't with him in the end
When he drew his last breath
I wished I'd been to hold his hand
And hold him as he left
My Mum was strong for all of us
Who were then left behind
We tried to not upset her heart
She's say she didn't mind
We spoke of Dad and often laughed
But sometimes we just cried
It cuts us all when we all thought
Of just the way he died
Bereft of hope, robbed of his strength
Left just an empty shell
Locked up tight inside his frame
He must have gone through hell
Then comes my Mum, my guiding light
She strode right to the fore
She grasped the lead and stood up tall
And led us all once more
For 10 years plus she moved right on
Taking all in her stride
You could tell she missed my Dad
Some things you cannot hide
She too grew ill, and felt real weak
They couldn't find out why
When told that she was terminal
I just sat down and cried
“Why was this all happening now?”
“This all seems so unfair!”
My Mum just smiled, said “C'est la vie”
And sat back in her chair
We visited Mum alternate nights
Myself and partner Lynn
Some days we did a double shift
Although it did us in
I too got ill, not bad of course
But I could not visit
Aware of just how ill Mum was
But I could not risk it
Xmas '11 was an awful time
It really was so sad
Advancing days, time growing short
Not knowing how long we had
My Mum was now in her last days
She knew it too as well
It was just like a crap repeat
Of my Dads sheer hell
Her last day came, I got the call
As I put down the phone
I realised now straight away
I felt now so alone
An old orphan, a silly thought
No Dad and now no Mum
I waited for it all to stop
But no release would come
My world just stopped, the sun still shone
The world just turned each day
My heart was black, devoid of love
“I want to run away”
But that is not the man I am
I buckle but I do not fall
I'm bruised, and bashed and bloodied
But I am walking tall
I feel I am my fathers son
Much more now than before
For those having a real nightmare
I really do implore
Do not give up, do not back down
Stand up for what you feel
Don't be part of the machine
Do all that makes you real
Break down and cry and shout and swear
If its what gets you through
Who gives a damn what others think
Just be true to you
I didn't think I'd get over
Losing my dear old Mum
But now it's over 2 years on
And rarely I am glum
All I do is sit right down
And shut my eyes real tight
And I am back with Mum and Dad
And everything feels right
Whoever said the age old phrase
“Out of sight is out of mind”
Please send this silly sod to me
I'll boot their big behind
My Mum and Dad, live evermore
In cells and blood and mind
And through their kids and legacy
They both have left behind
Still here on earth not visible
Most of the time it's true
But I still sit and talk to them
As I would talk to you
I talk to them, you'll think I'm mad
I simply do not care
It just makes me feel really safe
To know that they're still there
So now I sit down in my room
Upon my empty bed
They both reside down here with me
Even though both are long dead
There's more to life than physical
Of this you can be sure
There's spirits, aura's genetics too
And feelings too are pure
So when I think of Dad and Mum
I sit down with a smile
And shut my eyes to be with them
For just a little while
I feel their warmth, deep in my soul
Just like a summers day
It brightens up my darkest times
And chases them away
I'll leave you now to close my eyes
And see them both again
I'll tell them that I spoke of them
With love and peace my friends
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
A bespoke suit is tailor-made to the individual and a bespoke person is
engaged to be married (spoken for)
but to have bespoken, or bespeak, is to ask for or engage in advance
(as in marriage or a business partnership)
and also to speak to or address, show or indicate, foretell or forebode.
So, truth may be ascertained by considering the truth we reason, the truth
we've seen, the truth we feel and the truth we're told.
Merely to speak is to cause good or doom in a magical world.
Silence is not an option for every action bespeaks intention.
Although the empire and the corpse collapse we do not let the circle
We impose our own small order.
Order may delineate or assimilate the Other.
Belonging is longing for complete solitude but you gladly return to lovers'
arms and plumbing.
There's little humor in the cholera unless you manage to survive.
I pleasure in and treasure my insignificance. If only I could be overlooked
by the planning board and IRS.
Powerful contrasting and synergizing photos on the cover of Balance by
Hubbard & Kane
the economics of great powers, ancient Rome's ruins, decaying columns
versus Washington DC's orderly, straight and sterile streets from the
Capitol to the National Mall.
What causes empires to fall? How do they come to hold community?
Well, we worry. Overpopulation, malnutrition. We are anxious about
famine, genocide and nuclear war.
Self-imposed suffering, the hyperorganization that is a cancer on our
When the individual dies does the National Mall impose its own small
order on all dark matter? Or is the whole universe canceled including
chaos and complexity? Watch out, don't run into those small invisible
These are questions I'm willing to find the answers to. Willing in the sense
of living in the place where will and power are one. Because to be
bespoke is to be spoken for.
* * *
Three conceptual models of causal logic:
the unclosed valve at Three Mile Island is an example of the on/off or
the genetic contribution to a developing cancer is likely a graded,
probabilistic risk rather than an absolute certainty;
a depression that occurs after a relatively minor stress that followed a
long string of moderate or severe stressors would be an example of
an emergent or nonlinear cause.
Four levels of analysis, an approach first suggested by Aristotle over 2K
in the Three Mile Island and Fukushima nuclear accidents, predisposing
causes were the flawed training and management oversight;
the tsunami was a precipitating (get it?) cause;
the inherent complexity of the many interacting systems that make up a
nuclear power plant is a programmatic cause;
and human hubris is a purposive cause.
Three logics by which knowledge of causation is gained:
the empirical method uses the scientific method, for example, the
determination that a genetic variant is present in multiple members
of a family in which cancer is common;
the empathic method uses the logic of narrative connectedness to
support the reasoning that a specific stressor is negative for one
person but not another;
ecclesiastic logic would be employed by a believer who attributes cause
to an actual lapse in his longstanding participation in the precepts of
his religion (or discipline).
Therefore, we may estimate the probability of a precipitating cause using
or name the purposive ideal behind an emergent cause based on
or identify a categorical cause predisposing us to an event by telling the
story or history empathically.
Horrible how we die!
Yet it's an idyll of an early summer evening, new cut grass, two baseball
teams of children playing in it.
Long poem by
William Masonis | Details |
There, in the In-Between,
No trumpets sound
No beings clad in gold celestial fire
Arrive as guides to the heart's desire,
Only silence falls
Throughout the velvet deep profound.
At the In-Between,
No Savior calls
For there is naught but nothingness;
An emptiness entire.
Strangely, I sensed myself suspended
In a nevertime of not-quite-being.
Such was the In-Between, where now I wandered.
As though it had always been,
I felt myself afloat, adrift
Upon some frigid river full of ice
Which had no source and knew no end,
That traveled 'round and 'round and back again upon itself
Rising and falling over distant hills and bearing me with it
- Or rather, what was left of me -
Along in its meaningless, endless circuit.
Nor dark nor light intruded.
Vision compassed only what might be envisioned,
Images forming and fading
Within the little cavern of my skull.
Voices without discernable words.
Murmmerings within the waters.
Something like a sword
Was lodged down my throat.
I gagged upon it, over and over;
Unseen hands would withdraw it, then shove it down again.
The main thought flickering in my head
As I lay in this place
Was of how I seemed to have become some frail remnant
Of whatever I once was.
No longer did I have that sense of flesh
Containing the shape of me,
Nor the feel of muscle, nor the bone beneath.
I felt I had somehow been rendered
Some modern scientific wonder,
A creature flayed alive yet living
In some embryonic form, possessed of such shape as it could claim
By virtue of a remaining mass of nervous tissue;
A minimalist miracle
Preserved in a nutrient bath by the power and will
Of a conclave of white smocked High Priests of medicine.
Strangest of all, perhaps
Was that this perception of my fate
Occasioned in me not horror,
But rather a regretful sadness.
"What will they tell my wife?" I sighed in my mind.
Yet, by slow degrees the feel of the outward world
Stole in upon my little hell of shapelessness.
The throbbing thing I seemed to have become
Refleshed itself somehow,
Though the sword in its throat remained.
Distant voices resolved into speech again,
And as they did I felt myself begin moving again
'Round and 'round as before, still on circuit
But no longer floating on ice.
Now, instead, I seemed lain on some unseen track
Circling through a low-roofed sandstone cavern.
When I passed the band of light
That marked the faroff entrance of this cave,
I would hear the voice of that Boy Who Would Be Our King
Exhorting the Disunited Nations
To join his crusade to punish his chosen scapegoat
For an evil he had helped loose upon the world.
The long silences that followed his harangues
Revealed the skepticism of his audience.
I could sense that a long roll call of the dead
Would soon be scrolling past the world's collective eyes,
Be his call accepted or no;
This was for show, decisions had already been made.
I regained perception of how dangerous things were becoming out there,
Out there where I'd lost my way, to stumble into this place,
How long ago I could no longer recall.
I knew this to be its nature, though
And as well that this was where I belonged, Out There
Where the only source of peace or peace of mind
Was the hope we wove between ourselves
With threads of unstoppable possibilities
The human way spins for itself.
I knew where I belonged, and reached out for it.
I came back to be within
The folds of all I love
To seek the mystic shine of life
Expressed in friends, relations, wife
Awaiting my return.
I began to climb Above
Back to where all hopes begin
To where desires brightly burn
Until their ash shines whiter than
The purer feathers of the dove.
Long poem by
Sharon Edwards | Details |
Double Set Up
The first lump was the scariest in 1983.
I had found it in the shower.
Two other major surgeries I've already had that very year.
I was thirty three.
A mammogram back then was so different.
I remember a round cylinder with a purple glow.
The radiologist came in and said:"Your breast are full of lumps."
My knees weakened and my stomach rose to my throat.
You have fibrocystic breast disease.
So off to my surgeon of choice I would go.
I had two choices back then.
I could have a biopsy be woke up and told the results of the frozen section.
A second surgery then scheduled.
Or I could go to sleep with a double set up.
One was for a biopsy and one for a mastectomy.
Double consent forms signed and off to sleep you go not knowing what you wake up to.
Because of the recent surgeries, I decided on the double set up.
I would not know what to expect.
I was a circulating nurse in surgery and knew all about mastectomies and cutting edge reconstruction for 1983.
I knew a large pressure bandage meant a mastectomy and when I woke up it was large.
I cried, not knowing I had bled too much from the benign lumpectomy site.
The second biopsy was 1989 just after my father had died.
This time I chose to be awake with a local and self-hypnosis.
The first anesthesiologist said NO so a second had to be found.
My surgeon had reluctantly agreed with permission to put me to sleep if she saw fit.
So with my signal and a local anesthetic injection, it began.
This had never been done before in this hospital with the patient awake.
The lump was at the exact same spot as the first.
It was deeper than first thought so some IV versed was given.
Versed relaxes and causes amnesia so you don't remember the pain.
The medical student working with my surgeon was intrigued that I was wide awake.
He had just finished his OB rotation where I taught him how to birth.
The frozen section was negative and the lump removed.
A simple dressing was applied.
The day surgery nurses were pleasantly surprised that I didn't have to be watched for anesthesia side effects.
They couldn't believe I had hypnotized myself.
So now all biopsies are done under local and versed.
No more going to sleep wandering if you wake up to just one breast.
The trauma of treatment slightly minimized by giving a woman more choices.
Since then there have been a couple of lumps treated with no caffeine and Vitamin E and Fish Oil.
Repeat mammograms and ultrasounds.
Monthly self breast exams.
I've been lucky and I am grateful and practice preventive care.
When I first started nursing all women went into surgery with a double set up and the surgeon and the husband made the decision when to take off the breast.
I always thought it barbaric to treat a woman this way.
I now know of two women who refused to do preventive care.
One is dead after waiting too late to get any treatment started.
The second although 91 will not even see a doctor.
It will be a terrible death with rotting flesh and pain.
I also have done medical chart audits with woman after woman refusing mammograms and denying doing self breast exams or having PAP smears.
Two simple exams to save your life;
Why I ask would a woman do this to herself and family?
Long poem by
Silent One | Details |
In life, I have faced many trial and tribulations,
but I knew this would be the hardest one.
I can still remember that fateful day,
after scans, biopsies and tests, it was finally confirmed.
I didn't smoke, drink or suffer from stress, so how could this be,
even my doctors were totally bemused, you see.
At the peak of my health, strong fit and able,
yet a lump on my throat was the only telling sign.
I still remember when it was confirmed, stage 4 aggressive cancer,
on the base of my tongue, spread to my neck, throat and voice box.
The doctor looked at me, waiting for me to break down,
I showed little emotion, my mind told me, don't worry be strong.
My voice is my talent and I might lose it forever,
as I sat in the car, a little numb, everything was still.
I looked up to the sky and wondered why me?
I thought to myself, God, you sure have a funny sense of humour.
A 50/50 chance of life, for a moment or two, I did feel sorry for myself,
but just for a moment, as I knew I needed to be strong.
Cancer can be such a confusing thing, a horrid disease,
but they say 50% is in the head and you have to defeat your demons.
I kept it a secret for so long, its not easy telling someone,
all those around me broke down with its discovery.
I didn't want to show them I am weak, so I remained strong,
being strong was what I had been all my life and this would be no different.
I had so much to live for and I constantly told myself, your not going to die,
I had so much support from family and friends, it pulled me through.
however, no one really understood, I guess its difficult if you've not had it,
but it made me feel so lonely, so I just didn't discuss it and suffered alone.
The chemotherapy poisoned my whole body and left me weak,
I felt so vulnerable, stricken to a bed with no appetite or thirst.
I just lay there motionless, no energy to get up or walk,
wasting away slowly, thinking how is this a cure?
Then came the radiotherapy, wow, now that's something!
Burning away at my neck and mouth, slowly becoming more painful.
You can see your whole face and body changing, unrecognisable,
I was the pieces of the man I used to be, but I was not broken.
I constantly reminded myself, it will all be over soon,
that all pain is temporary and I will be fine.
Others never had so much faith, I could see in their faces,
when they looked at me they saw death.
Even when admitted into hospital, as I couldn't eat anything now,
one whole month, a peg in my stomach, and both arms on drips.
Everyday seemed to get harder and harder, but my mind remained strong,
not once did my mind think I had cancer, just a temporary illness.
Through all this time, not once did I breakdown or cry, not me, no, not I,
there were times when I felt so miserable and low, I forgot how to smile.
Sometimes I felt like I was falling into depression, into a dark twisted world,
but my mind kept me sane and kept me strong and slowly I began to smile.
So here I am, still alive and almost 100% today,
I know cancer will return again one day, i've won the battle, but not the war.
Its hard and its difficult, especially when your whole world is falling apart,
but remember worry ends when faith begins and everything will be all right.
29 July 2015
Long poem by
Leonora Galinta | Details |
I used to receive regular phone calls so gladly from her
I could feel all her excitements and when she’s so eager
Telling me about her and how bright the sun in her day
And all her surprises and experiences while I’m away.
Until such a day came which terrified and shook my nerve
A voice on the other end had seemed can no longer serve
I knew she was right there, trying to reach me out here
All I heard were sobs and I couldn’t imagine her profuse tear.
It took a little while before she’d finally composed herself
In a quivering voice, she told me that she’s at the ridge of a cliff
I asked her why and she said so sadly that she has a breast cancer
I was shocked but still quite skeptical of what I’ve heard from her.
She relayed the diagnoses from her doctors and gynecologists
She got a lump, a sign of dreadful cancer on her left breast
Hiding the echoes of my tears, I tried to give her comfort
Feeling horrified but I tried to control myself with an effort.
It didn’t take so long before she has undergone an operation
Her left breast was taken off like a total fiasco on her own
She felt all the darkness which she never had in her life
I tried to light her mind, despite hectic work I was on her side
Once in a while, her close friends and co-workers took my place
When I went back to work, they helped and assisted on her needs
We kept her mother uninformed because she has heart trouble
But not with other relatives so they’ll know our situation together
After several months of thorough medications and chemotherapy
She has improved her situation also with her faith in the Almighty
Amenable on pieces of advice and religiously took her medicines
In her battle are also exercises, herbals, juices and other nutritious aids
Now, she’s almost recovered although her cure will take five years
I admire her courage, strength and perseverance - all at her gear
The traits and practices she’d exhibited are also for me to emulate
( She has considered me as her younger sister since we’re still young)
To prevent any health problems that come or knock on my gate.
Note: A dedication to my loving cousin and a friend, (2nd-3rd degree cousin) who is still under recovery of breast cancer. She visits her doctors regularly also to monitor her right breast . Thanks to the princess’ hospital (for cancer patients) that at least had enlighten her financial burden. Although we’re in the same country, we live far away from each other but she’s always with me in my prayers. I can only be with her this time only on our longer holidays (school break). Ialso lovingly dedicate this poem to all victims of breast cancer. There is always a miracle in healing.
Contest: Femme Fatale- (pink ribbon)
Sponsor: Poet PD
Long poem by
Poet Destroyer A | Details |
**Every pace change --is the voices of poets sharing his/her Ribbon**
The phone rings,
The clock dings,
I scream, scream, and scream:
I can’t grasp what is real
I can’t inhale the lives you steal
This game is like murder in the first degree,
I can barely feel the words you're expressing.
Your hand, holding on to mine as if it was the last
I crawl I hide behind these moonstone walls
There it stood and stole my Womanhood
Pink is the ointment rubbed inside my diary.
I crawl- I remember-
Looking for a dream, where the women wear combat boots
Women ready to kill all confrontation with nukes.
I was lost!
Do you know the feeling?
Once you hear, the “C” word your mind starts spinning,
You can’t see what’s going on,
Your smiles soon to be gone,
LOOK AT ME!
On this fright night, I bleed
Hold on tight, of the dead of this night
I’m down on my fallen knees,
A secret I can't keep, no longer need
Breaking backs when I mention the word “C.”
It is like getting struck by a freight train
Taking what belong and makes ME me!
Forgetting the Pink October ribbons, I wore
Taking time to weave them into the last strand of my red chemo hair.
Now here you are,
Standing on the chest
Heavy shoulders a violin press.
No longer needing the little black dress
Skin pink tight leather, now you caress
My eyes are full of tears
Once I discovered the beast came back without fear
The news blew like a missile in heat
With a fire’s shooting out from the dark
Sweltering me, blazing me,
Leaving the world, all ribbon tied.
Dimples and pretty lips, I drop the world with beauty and tissues.
Filled with pink ivory issues
This is the way that I feel, I am real…
You are a killer, you are a disease!
You sit there and shatter our lives,
With many of us, you’ll discover we do not break like glass
Still, we walk in high heels strolling through pink valley skies.
With a charm called a Pink Ribbon; -I WORE-
- A heavy pink scarf now I wear like a noose,
Remembering my days have been numbered
I PLEAD FOR MY LIFE?
I have no family to lean on
Everybody’s plus my mother is gone
You are the undead:
Leading some of us into a watery grave
You are like a jack in the box
Hiding until you are found…
You’re silent until your jobs done...
You made us angry, you made us cry, you killed many…
However, you will never come close to a glorious ~Victory~
We are “PINK LADIES,” who continue to be strong
I will find a way to sew my chest back to its caressing view!
One day will find the cure,
And, destroy YOU "The miserable ‘Breast Cancer’ Disease"
"ONCE AND FOR ALL!"
Dedicated to all the females of the world.
((And men whose life touched by this disease))
Long poem by
Poet M.e. | Details |
Thirty Eight ( Corny Cancer Poem) For Sharon
Hallmark has a million cards in their catalog
And not one of them says,
American greetings had nothing that says
Thirty-eight and Never coming home
So I hope it’s not too late to write this poem
After your eighth round of Chemo,
The Doctor says the best medicine is prayer
Any Pre-med drop out
Or High school Health student
Can interpret what this means
But it still just isn’t fair-
Still who am I to be a pessimist?
And I apologize for screaming at your surgeons
(Telling them to stop comparing
your tumors to fruit)
For telling them you aren’t a damn fruit stand
Even for tossing those fruit diagrams
In the Hazmat can
Sorry if I let things get out of hand
Tomorrow they get to pull out
Their zapper instruments
And shoot at your cells like you are
One of those Nintendo video games
Over and over again
And I get to sit in the waiting room
Hoping the red cells surrender
And the white ones win
And Tylenol has a zillion dollars
And can’t even find a cure for cancer
Bayer pharmaceuticals has no answer
And if you die at thirty-eight
I’ll probably boycott Tylenol
For the next twenty-three years
Advil for the next twenty-two
Blaming both of them
For not saving you
Forty calls to Bayer pharmaceuticals
And not a single one returned
What kind of heroes are they
When they aren’t even concerned?
And I’m pissed off at Obama
And Dr. Phil and Oprah too
And all Nationally syndicated talk show host
Who are talking about who slept with who
When they should be talking about
I’m also ticked at a thousand Nazis
And twenty millions gangbangers
And eight-hundred serial killers
Who have working organs
When all you need is just one-
Still I know you wouldn’t even accept it
Even if there was a law that said you could
And you would say something corny like
God loves bad people as much
As he does the good
And i wish i could snatch
half of my lymph nodes
And give them to you
But no Doctor would approve the surgery
So what else can i do
Except write this silly poem for you
except watch you lose weight and hair
And listen to doctors suggest prayer
And more chemo only means
More Hallmark moments at the hospital
And more crying, more dying
More doctors and chaplains lying
But mostly I’ll never get to figure out
How it took you thirty minutes
At Build-A-Yogurt in the mall
And they only had six flavors-
Even after I told you
Chocolate Coconut Sprinkle
Was really the best of all
Tonight your children get to sleep in your bed
And pretend You’re coming home
And I get to cry for them and finish
This corny cancer poems